The Hound
by WolverineKILLS
Summary: (TH v.3.0) Companion piece to another story I wrote titled "Little Bird".


**Note!** I published this story once, then deleted it. Then I published it _again, _and once more deleted it. See the pattern? The reason for all that is, well, I despised that story and where it went... especially how it ended. (I shiver to think about the people who've told me they have saved PDFs of it. Brrrr!) So, I'm trying this _again_, now with a new direction. First chapter will be kind of similar to the original, but after that... hopefully not so much. And for those of you who have a copy of the original, I'll just futilely hope that you delete it and go with this version... or at the very least, please don't tell me you have it. Sorry, just very embarrassed to have written that! Own worst critic. So it goes.

**And**: This is a companion piece to another story I wrote called "Little Bird". If you've not read that, then parts of this might seem confusing or incomplete. I'd recommend having read that first, to give this story a little more meaning and context.

_Characters belong to George RR Martin, not me. _

* * *

><p>There was movement all about him; the soft scrape of armour, the gentle flaps of cloth in the breeze. Footsteps. The snorting of horses. From somewhere a crow cawed, an ugly, demanding sound. One of the outlaws took the Hound's arm, twisting the burned skin that was there, and set to untying the thick rope binding his wrists. "Don't try anything, dog," the man's harsh voice warned as the tight knot slowly loosened. "We're the ones who're armed. Remember that."<p>

When his wrists were freed, the outlaw grabbed the hood covering Sandor's eyes and roughly yanked it off. The sudden sunlight blazed like a thousand hells, and the Hound cursed at the glare, squeezing his eyes shut tight. Beside him the man in the piss-yellow cloak laughed, but the laughter sounded a world away. Everything did. She was gone.

The outlaws rode off shortly thereafter, warning Sandor Clegane against pursuit. They'd left his things scattered about the expansive clearing he now stood in alone. His longsword had been tossed the farthest away, in the opposite direction the three thieves had ridden. The Hound snatched it off the ground, wiping away the blood and dirt that had hardened to the steel, and then located the blade's sheath near a thorny shrub. He took his torn and bloodied Kingsguard cloak from under a tree, and found his dagger hidden within a tangle of heather. His snarling dog helm had been tossed behind some rocks. That was it. Save for Stranger, a wineskin, and an old tunic stashed in a saddlebag, he had nothing else in the world.

He slouched against the base of a tree and buried his face in his hands. His whole body trembled. _"I was beginning to think those outlaws had found you, little bird." _There was the faint echo of cruel laughter then — _his_ laughter.

_"And would that have pleased you, my being stolen away by _outlaws_?" _

A gust of wind whistled by, and in its wake there was nothing but an endless, penetrating silence. The broiled flesh on his arm blistered and burned. "Seven hells," he whispered to no one at all.

Night came, and he remained beneath the tree. The moon was near to full and glowing, and the sky cloudless and clear. No rain, but it was cold, and there was no escaping the frigid bite of the wind. The Hound stared up at the stars, shivering softly under his cloak. Exhaustion burned at his eyes, yet sleep wouldn't come. Time passed, very slowly.

_"I would go with my knight."_ The words thundered again and again in his ears like a hail of echoes. _"I would go with my knight."_ Deep within that hollow cave, she'd shrieked for him to stay. "_I would—"_

"Bloody _hell!_" The Hound slammed his fist into the frosty heather beneath him. The movement immediately awoke the searing ache of his burns, and the pain became a living thing, a ruthless torture that grew hotter and hotter until soon it was everything, enough to blur out the stars and the sky and even her face…

The next morning he woke cold and disoriented. But it took only a moment for his memory to stir with consuming clarity. She was gone. Stolen. His insides hardened, heavy as stone.

Stranger was grazing quietly nearby, and Sandor went to him. He slowly pet the horse's dark coat, and the animal acknowledged his master's attention with a gentle whicker. "Let's find something to drink," the Hound grumbled.

Locating water took little effort, for the Riverlands were ample with it. Still, Sandor led them alongside the shoal of a small river a ways, not halting until he and his horse were hidden well within the thickness of trees. There, Stranger drank thirstily.

Sandor slowly pulled off his tunic and then sat down on a flat rock next to the water. He stared at the dressing on his arm. The dried blood staining the cloth had turned an ugly, rust-coloured brown that was now crusted to the fabric. _"Will it hurt?"_ she asked softly.

_"It will."_ He grimaced. Very carefully he pulled the end of the dressing free, and then he slowly began to unwind it, each turn of cloth gently tugging at the skin trying to heal beneath it. Eyes closed, his teeth clenched hard enough to crumble.

Once the stained cloth had been removed, Sandor had to force himself to look down at his ruined arm; when he did so, a jolt of shock immediately hammered through him. His body heaved violently, but there was nothing to bring up from his stomach but empty air. He cursed and shuddered and breathed through the blinding pain.

At long last the shock settled. But he couldn't bring himself to look at the damage again. Not yet.

He kicked off his boots. _"You're not afraid to look at me anymore, little bird." _

Using only his good arm, he stripped himself down. _"Why should I be? It's only skin."_

When he stepped into the river, the iciness of the water burned almost as harsh as fire. The throbbing numbness was a welcome diversion, though, and he forced himself forward, trudging into the river until he was waist-deep and his cock had shrivelled into itself. _"Aye. It's only skin."_ He plunged beneath the water, where the freezing sting was close to excruciating. A battle between ice and fire. He let the ice win.

It rained that night, a soft, steady drizzle that lasted hours. Sandor sat with his back against a tree, awake and staring at nothing. The cold, trickling drops of rain fell almost silently in the hollowness of night. _"Thank you,"_ she said, from someplace far away, _"for taking such good care of me."_

When he finally fell asleep hours later, he dreamt of her coaxing him, whispering sweetly and pleading for his seed. He dipped into her warm sheath, and a heat coursed through his entire body, one that grew hotter with every exquisite moment. Just as he was about to explode, her hair suddenly turned to flame, and so did her eyes. When she opened her mouth, her lips erupted with fire. The bed was burning; _she_ was burning. Sandor felt no more pleasure, only the searing heat of flames; having engulfed the little bird, they now set to swallowing him as well. The heat licked at him, kissed his bare flesh. He wanted to scream, but fire had already reached his throat...

The Hound's eyes snapped open, and he shot up, gasping breathless revulsion. His arm throbbed beneath a vicious and scornful pain. "Gods," he panted, shuddering with cold sweat. All around, the grey dawn and cheerful chirps of songbirds welcomed him to another day.

It was a frigid morning, still and without wind. Sandor watched the sunrise, feeling numb as the sky slowly lit up with a thousand colours. Were the little bird with him she'd have been swooning at the sight, chirping as cheerfully as the birds in the trees. He could almost hear her voice in his head. Almost. There was another voice he heard that was much louder than hers; it was harsh and grating. It told her to shut her mouth. And she listened. There was nothing but silence after that. Something in him tightened.

When the sun had risen, the Hound once again removed the dressing from his arm and took off his clothes. He went to the river. The water stung even worse than it had the previous day, but he willfully bore the penetrating pulse of its icy touch. Lost within the trees, the birds continued their songs.

After dragging himself out of the numbing cold of the water, he redressed his arm. The surface of the water had stilled, and it glistened smooth as glass. Sandor carefully studied his reflection in it, looking first to the good side of his face, and then shifting to the bad. The burned corner of his mouth twitched. He thought of the little bird's kiss. He closed his eyes and remembered until he could almost feel her touch…

_"Sandor!"_ she shrieked, and his eyes shot open again. A hideously ruined face stared up at him from the water. _"I would go with my knight." _His stomach clenched. _"He is sworn to protect me."_

The Hound went to Stranger. For a moment the seething pain in his arm disappeared, and so did the hollow ache of hunger. Even his anger seemed to have left; everything was gone but the sweet echo of her voice inside his head. He climbed onto his horse's back and kicked the animal to a start. Birds sang from the trees, and a shrill wind soon began to blow. Stranger's hooves thundered relentlessly upon the hard ground. Yet Sandor Clegane could hear nothing but her.


End file.
